The Devil in Manhattan
by Sci F.I. Warper
Summary: Six months after "Angel of the Bronx" the Saints are in hiding. With the help of Smecker and their new friend, Anna, they're on the road to recovery. Little do they know that someone knows their secret. Someone who failed once to make an example of them.
1. Saying Goodbye

A.N. And we're back, folks. So, for those of you starting out, it might be a good idea to go back and read "Angel of the Bronx" before starting on this fic. That said, I will try to sum up the important stuff you need to know so you're not totally lost.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Troy Duffy is the master of this universe. I'm just trying to get by in it.

* * *

Anna O'Reilly let out an audible sigh of relief as she signed out from her shift and grabbed her backpack from the locker she shared with a fellow employee. She was unsurprised to see the woman's personal effects were not present, despite the fact the woman was taking over the shift after her's. Slamming the locker closed, she swung the backpack offer her shoulder and headed towards the main lobby. Waving briefly to Susan, the secretary at the front desk, she opened the front glass doors and marched into the cold of a New York winter.

A quiet snowfall had descended finally, softening the city's sleek angles of brick, cement, and metal into a smooth skyline of cobalt grey. On her side of the river, the snow coated everything in a surreal quiet not yet banished by blackened tire treads and the bright lights of the evening. Shivering slightly, Anna pulled up on her scarf till the lower half of her face was covered by the navy blue material. The wind whipped through the short, serrated locks of her raven black hair, blowing them over her eyes in the way of her vision. Passing by the offices, shops, and delis that crowded the main streets of Brooklyn, she made her way quickly towards the towering structure of St. Peter's Cathedral.

Solemnly entering the sanctuary, she cast a brief glance at the ornate alter at the front of the church. Absently fingering the silver crucifix around her neck, she glanced around to see if anyone was watching her. Her eyes caught sight of a few parishoners, kneeling in prayer, with the heads bowed contritely. They hadn't noticed her come in and wouldn't notice her leave. Briskly walking down the side aisle, Anna made a beeline for the moderately sized oak door just left of the alter. Carefully opening it a crack, she slipped in, closing it gently behind her. Groping around a second for the switch, she flicked the light on. A baren room looked back at her. The cathedral's grey walls stood firmly over a plain hardwood floor. In the corner, a metal staircase swirled upwards towards one of the bell towers. Walking to staircase, Anna cautiously stepped onto the rickety looking structure and descended to church's basement. As she drew closer to the floor, she could make out the distinct sound of two male voices.

"Ye hav' to fuckin' eat, Murph," the first of the voices rang out, clearly exasperated.

"The fuck I do," replied the other, angrily, "Jesus fuckin' Christ, Connor!"

"Lord's name!" the first called out, warningly, "Mother Mary full..."

"...Full of grace," the other spoke at the same time.

"This is a House of God, Murph. What are ya doin' cursin' like that?"

"T'was ye that started it," the other replied sullenly and Anna was certain she could hear the creak of someone laying down.

"Me!" exclaimed the first, "I did no such thing ye daft twit. Now will ye please eat yer..."

Anna peaked around the corner just right of the stairwell into the room just behind the wall. She could make out the owner of the first voice. Connor MacManus stood at the far end of the room, a tv diner clearly visible in his hand. Though she couldn't see him, Anna was certain the other voice belonged to his twin brother Murphy. The pair comprised all that was left of the infamous Boston Saints.

"No, Connor!" Murphy's voice rang out, sounding petulant to Anna's ears. She saw Connor glower a moment, glancing down at the microwaved meal in his hand, before his shoulders fell. Moving out of her view, she could hear him drop the tray on the small wood table furnishing the room provided the two men. A moment later, the sound of the bed creaking sounded again followed by quiet talking.

Closing her eyes, Anna let out a soft sigh. It would be in bad taste to intrude the boys' private moment. Yet she found herself unable to move away. It wasn't as though she hadn't had enough of people like the twins during her working hours, but the same scars now carried over to her personal life. It was hard to believe that merely six months had passed since she had first come to know the Saints of South Boston.

"We can hear ya breathin'," a male voice called out, startling Anna from her reverie. Jerking in surprise, Anna grimaced, mentally kicking herself for not leaving when she had the chance. Straightening up, she tucked a few loose strands of her hair behind her head and stepped into the room.

The spartan quarters greeted her. The white stone walls lay bare, save for two small windows on the upper half of the wall across from the hallway. A plain wood table had been placed beside the entrance with two plastic folding chairs on either side. The remnants of the tv dinner sat precariously on the edge, small tendrils of steam rising from it. On the far wall, two cots were shoved side by side. A lamp hung precariously between them, it's bulb casting a yellowish hue to the entire room.

Two men sat on the cot to her right, or rather, one layed down on it as the other sat on the edge. The second was lighter haired projecting a strong, dangerous prescence even as he smiled up at Anna. The other was dark haired with a narrow face holding more shadows than that of his brother's. One needn't be a professional counselor or even greatly astute to notice the man's eyes looked particularly haunted. Anna was one of the few people in the world who knew the reason why. Six months before, she had found the lighter haired man bleeding to death on the streets of New York. Despite her initial mistrust and dislike of him, she had helped him find and recover his brother, whom she found chained to the ceiling of a dank basement in Queens. Unfortunately, in the time it had taken to find him, the man had suffered and changed.

"Hey guys," Anna said, giving a slight wave. She ignored the Murphy's slight stiffening at her greeting.

"Anna!" Connor exclaimed, standing up, "What are ye doin' here, lass? I thought you were working today."

"Just got off," Anna replied, smiling softly and taking off her scarf and gloves, "Just thought I'd drop by...see how you guys are doing. Can I?"

"Sure, sure," Connor nodded, allowing her to take a seat in the chair she indicated, "Let me jus' get that outta the way."

Picking up the tv dinner tray, he cast a glance in his twins direction. Anna watched as an inaudible conversation passed between the two before Connor disappeared into the hallway. Alone with Murphy for a moment, Anna allowed her friendly persona to drop back to her professional one. Murphy, she noticed, had not looked at her yet. Despite her reassurances that she bore no grudge towards his attack on her when she found him, he always remained guilty in her presence. It presented itself in a persistent resitance to look her in the eye, even when he could sometimes ignore the other shadows the past. She had been working with him on it, but didn't feel right pressing the issue today. Especially with what she was about to do.

"How have you been?" she finally said, unable to take the silence and still concerned for the man's well-being.

"The nightmares are goin' away," Murphy replied casually, making it a point to stare at the two small windows, "'ve been sleepin' through the night...most days."

"Good," Anna said matching his tone as she ran her finger against the table's grain, " Good. It's a start."

Murphy's jaw tightened as he turned to glare at her. Any response he had, however, died on his lips as Connor walked into the room. Walking around Anna, he took a seat in the chair opposite her's.

"So wha' brings ye down here, lass?" Connor asked, his full attention on Anna. He had nothing but grattitude towards the young woman. Though four years the younger to him and Murphy, she had shown herself to be wise for her years and insitful in her deliberations. Despite the fact she often disagreed with them on ethical grounds, she had stuck by the pair after a less then cordial introduction six months ago and was still helping them through their recovery. Every night, Connor had thanked God for the divine providence of the young woman entering their lives.

"Like I said, just came to see how you guys are doing," Anna replied, smiling again. She felt her cheeks throb at the sudden tightness. Shifting to share a quick look with his brother, Connor faced her, his head tilted in a questioning glance.

"I see," he said judiciously, "An' that's all?"

"Yeah," Anna replied, feeling her gut recoil at the lie. Connor snorted and even a slight smile played along Murphy's lips.

"Anna, please," Connor replied, still bemused, "Wha' is it, lass? Ya know ye can tell us anythin'."

Anna dropped her eyes to her lap. Fingering the sleek material of her shirt, she bit the inside of her cheek. It had been so easy to come to the decision in the safety of her apartment, now empty of injured guests. Facing the pair of them, however, she wasn't sure she could go through with it. Not that she feared they would come after her for her decision. Despite the fact she didn't agree with their bloodthirsty agenda, she knew there was an honesty about them and a real concern for those they deemed innocent. They didn't have it in themselves to hurt her. No, the thing she feared most was her own conscience and sense of duty. Her professional experiences told her Muphy had been lying through his teeth about the nightmares. The fact that both men had bags under their eyes was physical proof of it. She knew he might not be able to take the sudden stress her decision could reak on the pair and if he went, Connor would soon follow. Yet selfish as it was, she couldn't deny the fact she was being drawn into their world and if she didn't do something soon, she wouldn't be able to get out again.

"I," she started, looking up. A stabbing pain raced through her chest at the concern now etched on Connor's face. For a moment her resolved almost slipped, but she continued, "I...I just came to tell you guys..."

"Well, out with it," Connor urged as she paused. Murphy nodded, sitting up against the wall.

"I just came to tell you guys that," she closed her eyes, forcing the words in her head into existance, "That, this will be my last visit. I won't be coming back."

"What!" two voices exclaimed in chorus.

"What do ya mean yer not comin' back?" Murphy exclaimed at the same time Connor cried, "Have ye lost it, woman?"

"Guys! Guys!" Anna yelled over them, holding her hands up defensively, "You knew and I knew that there was no way I was going to keep contact with you forever. I don't believe what you do is right and I can't actively say that and still help you. It's hypocritical."

"Ah, that's fuckin' bullshit!" Murphy replied, "An' you know it!"

Anna fixed a glare at him and continued, "You two don't really need me anymore. You're well on your way to recover and besides, Murphy, you're the one who said your nightmares are going away."

"He what?" Connor interrupted, casting his brother a look.

"Look, you'll be fine," Anna continued, standing up and grabbing her clothing, "You've got enough fans and supporters here to protect you. You don't need..."

She paused as Connor took hold of her hand. She glanced down at his, seeing "Truth" looking back up at her. Raising her gaze to Connor, she felt more of her resolve chip away at the sudden desperation clouding the bright blue of his eyes. Swallowing, she shook her head, throwing off the Saint's spell. Stiffening her back, she looked him once more in the eye.

"You don't need me anymore and I've done more then I ever thought I would. More then I ever promised. I can't keep doing this. I can't let myself be sucked in," she said solemnly, pulling her hand away, "Goodbye, Connor."

Then, with a quick turn, she was gone. Her footsteps echoed a moment on the stairwell softly fading into silence.

* * *

She barely remembered the walk home. St. Peter's closeness to her apartment had originally come as some sort of blessing. When Murphy had proven to be strong enough to move on his own, it had provided a safe distance he could go where he trusted his brother to care for him. Now, though, it would only serve as a painful reminder.

_Of what, though? _Anna thought, as she unlocked the door to her apartment. Even now, the place seemed empty despite the fact Connor hadn't been living on her couch for nearly six months. Nevertheless, the boys had often visited and Murphy had slept there once or twice when she felt it necessary to keep him under supervision. Tossing the keys onto the coffee table, she walked to the kitchenette, intent on making tea. Unfortunately, she got about two steps before she heard knocking.

Glancing at the offending door, she closed her eyes steeling herself for another conflict with a MacManus. Though she'd never admit to anyone, she had grown to take a perverse sort of pleasure in brow-beating either man into a surrender when it was in their best interest. Now it was time to use it to defend her own. Not even bothering to glance through the peephole, she swung the door open, freezing at the sight on the other side.

"Jeremy!"


	2. Bitter silence

To the majority of people who knew them it would seem a far reach that anyone could leave both the MacManus brothers speechless. Usually, if one couldn't come up with a sharp retort in time, then the other would instantly take up the slack. Sometimes neither would have say anything at all. The flash of their eyes would be all the words necessary. In moments like that, particularly if you were a evening patron at McGinty's, it was wise to stand back and pray the storm wasn't aimed in your direction. However, speechless was as good a description as any to describe the atmosphere now hanging oppressively in their small, hole-in-the-wall quarters.

It was almost too much for Murphy to take. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a thin cigarette and lighter. Sparking a flimsy flame to life, he took in a deep drag, closing his eyes as the calming taste of smoke rolled along his tongue. He had never been one for silence. That had always been more of Connor's style. His twin could find just about anything to keep himself occupied when the need arose, whether it be by reading the newspaper, designing a grandiose scheme that never quite worked out the way he planned, or simply praying. Patience came to Connor as easily as breathing. For Murphy, though, it was a task not an art. A task that had become harder in the last few months then he ever imagined. Silence, for him, was the key to memory. Memory or rather memories were something he wanted to put behind him. The bed creaked as he shifted, glancing over at his brother.

Connor looked up at the noise. It was the first sign of life he had exhibited in an eternity. After Anna's footsteps faded, he had momentarily stormed off after her. His footsteps only made it about as far as the stairwell. Then, as if deciding it wasn't worth it, he had returned, picked up the magazine on the foot of the bed, and began reading it as if nothing had happened. However, Murphy could tell by Connor's ever darkening scowl that more then one or two nerves had been hit by Anna's abrupt departure. He also knew it was wiser to give his twin the chance to cool off.

"So," Murphy said, taking the movement as permission to finally break the unbearable silence, "Do ya think she was serious?"

"How the fuck would I know?" Connor replied, his scowl darkening another shade as he turned back to his magazine. Murphy shook his head, resisting the urge to roll his. Apparently it was still too soon for Connor to want to speak. Leaning back against the wall again, he closed his eyes, willing time to go by faster.

"Besides," he heard Connor mutter, almost to himself, "Even if she weren't...She's always on abou' how she doesn't fuckin' trust us. Maybe it's abou' time she left us alone."

Now it was Murphy's turn to scowl. Opening his eyes, he sat up and turned sharply to fully face Connor

"Ye don' mean that," he argued, glowering at his brother. Connor turned his head towards him, a look of momentary surprise crossing his face.

"The fuck I don't," he replied, "What's it to ye anyway? Ye hardly ever speak a word ta her."

A sharp stab of guilt accompanied the red flush of anger through Murphy's veins. Despite the obvious impression Anna had made on his brother, Murphy still hadn't been able to allow himself to warm up to her. It wasn't that he didn't like her (though he could do without her constant attempts to make him talk about his experiences and the nightmares that came with them) or that he felt overly protective towards his brother and his brother's feelings. In all honesty, he was grateful her daily interactions with Connor had provided him with an excuse not to face the bitter resentments he had found he harbored towards his twin over the way their fates had played out. While he understood on an instinctual level that Connor had done everything short of killing someone to find him and he knew he would have done (and still would do) the same if their roles were switched, he also knew that something had finally come between the closely bonded pair. All things being equal, he alone had born the burden of being taunted, tortured, given the choice to kill his brother or save himself, and then been left to carry out his choice. Anna, for him, was a reminder of how close he came to making the wrong one.

"Ah, don' try blamin' this on me," Murphy shot back, though in the back of his mind he wondered if it weren't true, "Yer the one who won't admit ta takin' a fancy to her..."

The scowl dropped immediately from Connor's face, replaced by a mask of cold indifference. It was a look Murphy recognized as full intent to maim and possibly kill. Any more pressure and he knew Connor would come at him.

"Walk away, Murph," Connor interrupted him softly, honoring their bond only so far as to give his brother a warning. His eyes locked on Murphy's and the brothers glared at each other for a long moment, neither willing to back down.

"Fuck you, then," Murphy finally replied, unwilling to deal with Connor and his mood. Standing up, he threw on his jacket which had been lying across the edge of his bed. Turning his back on Connor, he stalked off in search of fresh air.

* * *

Father Reginald A. Genosa had been serving the parishioners of St. Peters and the surrounding city missions for approximately thirty-seven years now. A man in his mid-sixties, the good reverend was an unusually active individual both for his congregation and in the volunteer community during his own spare time. Casting a terrible, lean, reaper-like shadow from his pulpit, a quick conversation with the man would reveal an individual with a sincere, gentle, and self-sacrificing personality. Hardly a person to condone violence, Father Genosa had nevertheless taken it upon himself to shelter and protect the Saints of South Boston, providing both physical and spiritual support to the two young men. His reasons were his own.

The brothers, he had soon found, were a study of contrast when it came to their shared response towards support. On one hand, they seemed almost awed by his willingness to allow them to partake of the Sacraments (provided they had confessed and received absolution) and to pray with them without necessarily asking what he was pray about. While obviously devout, their reactions bothered Father Genosa. It was almost as if someone had taught them all they needed to know to be good Catholics, yet had failed somewhere to point out why they were to perform or not perform the actions. In the most secret of his thoughts, he sometimes surmised that such an error may have been the root cause of their vigilantism. In the physical realm, however, both men showed a stark independence. Once cleared by a physician in his congregation, the brothers asked little of the priest in terms of material goods. In fact, the only vice they made known to him was asking his permission to smoke cigarettes. While he personally found the habit insufferable, Father Genosa decided to make a small exception in their case, provided the boys indulge only in their tucked away sanctuary.

Now sitting in the safe quiet of his own office, Father Genosa's thoughts were far from thoughts of cigarette smoke or even the wanted fugitives hiding in the basement of his church. Instead, he was currently entangled in the design of his sermon for the first Sunday in Advent. With Christmas coming in a few weeks, he had decided to start a circuit involving the angelic messengers found throughout the Bible. Unfortunately, the usually articulate man could not find the right words. Taking off his reading glasses, he set the flimsy frames down atop the blank sheet of paper needing to be filled by Sunday. He had momentarily contemplated giving up the task earlier evening, but remembered he had promised to conduct a service at one of the missions in the lower end of Manhattan. The trip itself would take up too much of the day for him to put off working on the sermon. Nevertheless, he could feel the wariness of late evening settle on his bones.

It was in that instant, of course, that the telephone at the edge of his desk rang. Looking dubiously over at the offending object, Father Genosa once more pulled on his glasses before picking up.

"Hello, Father Genosa speaking," he said, his voice rumbling in a stong base.

"Father, Tis Murphy," a familiar lilt came over the line, "Could ye get Connor?"

Genosa had a sudden feeling momentary apprehension hearing that one twin was without the other. Shaking away the feeling as suddenly as it appeared, he replied quickly, "Of course, my son. Has something happened?"

There was a momentary pause followed by, "On second thought, tell him ta come over ta Anna's."

Again, Genosa felt the tingle of apprehension and the sense that this was an affair he was not welcome into.

"Of course," he replied, standing anyway, "Anything else I should tell him?"

"Aye," Murphy replied and Genosa thought he detected a note of panic in the young man's voice, "Tell him Anna's not here."

* * *

A.N. Dun dun dun. Sorry for the late update, I've been trying to figure out how to write the brothers' interactions/personalities and make them normal but somewhat altered based on what's happened to them. Hopefully I'm not too far off the mark. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed. Please review!


	3. Cacophony of Trouble

A.N.: Hey guys and gals. Sorry for the late update, this chapter was a pain in the rear end to write. Hopefully, however, you like it a lot and won't kill me for it.

* * *

"Fuck!"

The explicative fell casually from Connor's lips in the time it took the Irishman to jump to his feet and grab his jacket at the foot of the bed. Pulling the coarse material up over his shoulders, he straightened the lapels with a quick flick of his wrist Bending over, he reached beneath his pillow for the semi-automatic pistol tucked safely in a holster. With his back turned to the priest, he didn't even notice the slight open jaw look of horror on Father Genosa's face. Nor did he hear the faint click of the priest's teeth as he snapped his mouth closed and the unmannerly grunt he used to cover his folly. Pulling the gun out of the holster, he removed the clip to check the bullets. A full load of dull silver barely reflected his image back at him. He began to reload the weapon when Father Genosa's words stopped him.

"Are you planning on shooting someone?"

Connor felt himself freeze at the statement. There was no condemnation behind it. No argument over the duty given him. There was no praise in the words either. They were a simply a question, asked calmly in a tone above a whisper. Yet they rang through Connor like the church bells at Matins.

"Not if I can help it, Father," Connor replied in a tone to match. Scowling at himself he slammed the clip into its slot and cocking the pistol. Turning, he looked in Father Genosa's eyes, prepared for a defiant argument. Unfortunately for Connor, Father Genosa's face held as little emotion behind it as his words. He simply watched the Saint, an air of curiosity in the tilt of his head.

_But that doesn't mean I wouldn't shoot to protect myself or Murph, _he added quietly in his head, _Or Anna for that matter._

Something of those thoughts must have shown on his face because the priest once again asked before letting him go, "Is something troubling you, my son?"

Connor felt a jerk along his insides and prayed it stopped only there. The priest had continually asked the same thing of him off and on for the past six months, and each time Connor couldn't bring himself to give him an answer. There was just some sins that were between God and the sinner. Unconsciously, Connor's eyes strayed towards Murphy's cot. _I shouldn't have let him go,_ he thought to himself.

_You shouldn't have let Anna go,_ replied the more judgemental side.

_In any case, it turns out Murphy was right,_ a third and final thought weighted in, bringing with it its own burden of guilt.

Ever since the prison fuck that had become of their last job, Connor had both the weight of responsibility and conscience for everything that had happened with it He had gone over that night every day, demanding of himself why he hadn't been faster or smarter. He had had that gut feeling something was off, but ignored it. No. That wasn't true. He had blamed Da for it, for his pressure to continue their mission. He had confronted Da when he should have been keeping his eye out for trouble. That mistake had cost Da his life. Worse still then that, he'd practically been in the lap of luxury while Murph had been tortured and humiliated by the same man who had killed Da. In the end, he had even shot at his brother, intent on killing him to save Anna.

There wasn't a level of hell that could match the agony that raced through Connor daily. He had known the moment he put his arms around his brother that everything had changed. Murphy never talked about what happened and Connor never asked. He didn't think he could bear the added torment to his soul. Yet he still woke every time Murphy did and still laid beside him in the cot when the nightmares drove his brother to tears. A solemn duty that he was compelled to fulfill. But he refused to let Murphy and himself continue with their mission. He told Murphy it was for his benefit. To make sure he was healthy enough in body and spirit to continue their work as it was meant to be done, in the defense of the weak and not as a matter of vengeance. Murphy had accepted his reasons, but wasn't necessarily happy about them. What Murphy didn't know however was that the break was more for Connor than for himself. Since the moment they'd been separated, Connor had found himself being told again and again that what he was doing was wrong, mostly by Anna. Looking back now at the pain caused by his own actions or in-actions, he had begun to wonder if she was right. What sort of man let such harm come to his brother? In Connor's eyes, he was no better than Cain. He certainly wasn't the sort of man worth of the mantel he had claimed for himself.

As the storm of thought passed over Connor's face, it was all Genosa could do not to gasp in horror. The look he saw in the Saint's eyes was similar to one he saw in only the desperate of cases at the charities he served in. It was look that belonged on men who had done everything right and been rewarded with the worst one could be offered. It was a look that beloned on a person at the edge of their rope. It was look that belonged to someone who had lost their faith. Yet the second the Saint's eyes met the priest's the look was gone.

"No, Father," Connor replied almost brusquely, his outer expression once again becoming like stone. He could a prickle in the back of his neck, as if sensing the walls closing in behind him to compress the uncomfortable atmosphere and thoughts. Putting the gun back in its holster, he attached the worn leather to his belt. Giving Genosa a quick nod, not trusting himself to say any more, he brushed past the old priest and headed towards the stairs.

"I take it you don't want me to phone the police," Genosa said aloud to the empty room.

* * *

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, what the fuck are we doin' here, Murph?" Connor demanded incredulously, stepping cautiously across the threshold despite his familiarity with the apartment. Across the room, his brother looked up from his examination of the stereo to turn and glare sullenly at him.

"Findin' out what the fuck happened to Anna," Murphy responded crossly, cutting across the main room towards the small hallway. Moving towards the door at the end, Murphy carefully opened it and peaked in. The room stood reflective of the age of it's owner. Various movie and music posters lined the walls contrasting against the thin margins of lavender painted walls. A window sat directly in front of the doorway just above the small bed and bundled mass of white sheets on the floor. A plain writing desk sat a few feet from the bed, covered in papers and opened books. It was as if the occupant of the room had suddenly gotten up for a quick study break and never returned. Craning his head further into the room, Murphy saw a few drawers sitting at each corner on the other side of the room. A half full hamper sat between them. The drawer closest to him, he noted, was surrounded by completely blank lavender walls. On that drawer, he could make out two well-used red candles surrounded by pictures of Anna's parents.

Stepping back, he closed the door solemnly, feeling as though he had invaded on something private. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the glint of the knob to the apartment's second bedroom. Knowing better then to enter it, he turned back and walked into the main area. Connor remained standing just inside the doorway, crossing his arms impatiently.

"Fuck, Connor, wha' are ya doin' just fuckin' standin' there?" Murphy demanded, glaring angrily at his brother. The evidence that something was wrong was staring him in the face and Connor was either too stubborn or too proud to see it. Probably both at this rate.

"Waitin' for you ta come ta yer fuckin' senses," Connor snapped back, eyes scanning the room.

Not one thing in the entire apartment seemed out of place, save for two water glasses (both almost full) sitting out on the coffee table. The lack of destruction had startled Connor when he saw it. As he had raced across the several blocks separating Anna's apartment from St. Peter's his mind had unbidenly provided him with gruesome mental imagery. At first, he feared the place had simply been ransacked, possibly robbed, and Anna was actually tucked safely away at the convenience store around the west corner of her block. All too soon,however, the images of a ransacked apartment were bathed with blood and signs of struggle. Time eventually lost its factor in Connor's mental equation and he could see Anna's mangled corpse finally found tied to her bed or possibly her parent's bed, where Murphy wouldn't look. A chill had run across his stomach and down the lower half of his spine as he rounded the stairs up to Anna's apartment. Worse then the invading thoughts of Anna's corpse were those of Murphy's body falling down beside her, killed because he, Connor, hadn't made it there in time. Thankfully, however, Murphy had had the good sense to wait for him before entering Anna's apartment.

Based on what he could get out of his brother, Murphy claimed he had gone outside the church for a smoke to calm down Eventually the smoke had become a walk and the walk had brought him to Anna's door. He had told Connor he had knocked a couple times, intent on apologizing to Anna for possibly scaring her off (another stab of guilt to be added to Connor's growing collection) and maybe get her to talk to Connor. When she had answered the door on the third and loudest lock, Murphy had called Father Genosa.

"By the looks of it," Connor continued, looking back up at his brother, "She jus' stepped out with a bite to eat with a friend or somethin'."

As though to make his point, Connor looked pointedly at the two water glasses. Anna wasn't the sort of girl to offer her potential kidnapper a drink and the glasses certainly would have been knocked over if someone had tried something.

"Are ye fuckin' serious? A bite ta eat?" Murphy exclaimed incredulously, not even following Connor's gaze. He moved into the very center of the room, "She's not fuckin' here, Connor. Tha's like her. And tha's especially not like her after tellin' us she never wants to see us again."

"Hardly," Connor muttered under his breath, not wanting Murphy to hear him. He was used to feeling the brunt of Anna's self-anger and shame against what she saw as a violation of her principles. Murphy, however, wasn't. Aloud he simply replied calmly, " Look, I'm sure there's an explanation, Murph. Let's not fall into a fuckin' panic just yet."

"I'm not panicing!" Murphy exclaimed angrily, his hands clamping into fist. He could feel the bubbling heat of fury at Connor's obvious lack of concern and it was all he could do to not throw a punch at his brother. Why couldn't Connor see what he did?

Adding fuel to the flame, Connor simply closed his eyes and let out a patient sigh. Holding up his palm placatingly at his brother, he nodded.

"Alright," he replied, though there was no conviction in his words, "Let's jus' go see if we can't find her in some of the local shops...as a precaution. For fuck's sake."

The last bit he added for the dubious look Murphy gave him. The same scowl, nevertheless remained on Murphy's face, but his shoulders slacked slowly. With a slight, almost impercetable nod, he agreed to look with his brother, taking a step towards him. It would be at that moment, of course, when the hit went down.

The only sound was the shattering of glass. The first was the cracking of the window as a bullet flew past the spot Murphy had been standing merely seconds before. The slug blew past him, imperceptible but for a faint breeze and the shattered vase against the opposite wall. Connor's reaction was just as instantaneous. Pitching himself into the room, he grasped the lapel of Murphy's coat in the curl of his finger tips. With almost superhuman strength, fueled by a sudden shot of adrenaline, he pulled his brother face-down to the carpeted floor behind the couch. Falling a behind him, he covered his twin with his own body.

A cacophony of explosions followed the movement. Bullets flew throught the room shattering wood, glass, and plaster. Small bits and pieces that Anna used to decorate the place fell from their shelves, shaken down by the impacts and general noise. Beneath him, Murphy squirmed, reaching for a weapon that wasn't there. The top of the sofa exploded, raining small tuffs of stuffing onto the brothers.

The gunfire rang out for what seemed like ages, but was probably only a few seconds. The sudden silence following it was as deafening as the noise itself.

"Ge're off me," Murphy grunted, struggling slightly under Connor's weight. It was enough only to knock his brother over but not enough to push him into harm's way.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Connor exclaimed, under his breath, as he moved slightly to move away from Murph. His hand moved automatically to his gun, drawing the weapon out in preparation of using it. God help anyone who tried to take him or especially his brother.

The twins moved simeoultaneously into a one-knee hunch behind the couch. No sudden fire sounded around them. Heads turning to the other, they stared at each other for barely a second, an entire conversation playing out between them. With a quick nod of agreement, they turned to face the doorway.

"One," counted Murphy.

"Two," answered Connor.

"Three!" the pair cried at the same time, both shooting for the doorway. Again, no fire followed them as they shot through the frame into safety. Whoever their attacker may have been, they had already taken their one shot. Gasping in the hallway, both shaking with adrenaline, the brothers once again looked at each other.

"Believe me now," snarled Murphy. Connor nodded, quickly replacing his gun in its holster.

"Aye," he said, "Let's go find Anna."

* * *

A.N. 2: Reviews appreciated!


	4. Prior Action

Anna was angry. No, she was frustrated. Frustrated almost to the point she couldn't see straight. Jeremy could be driving her to the city's outer suburbs and she wouldn't have known the difference. Glancing at the man out of the corner of her eye, she curled her fingers into the striated fabric of her blue jeans. Behind her, Anthony tapped dully at the leather like upholstery of the door.

"I am sorry about this," Anthony's voice drifted bashfully to the front of the car.

"Forget it," Anna responded, looking out the window. Traffic had taken a detour alongside central park to avoid the heavy traffic and construction along the other side of the bridge. The dark twigs that remained of spring and summer foliage stuck up from the snow like wood crosses in an old, abandoned graveyard. Turning away from the dark image, Anna felt it replaced by a similarly dark thought, It's not as if I haven't given enough support to the criminal element.

She didn't notice the sharp look Jeremy shot back at Anthony or the confused expression given in return. She was to goddamn tired. Tired of trouble, and tired of crimes, and tired of the men who carried them out. She was tired of aiding them and especially tired of the broken souls she was incapable of repairing.

"You alright?" Jeremy asked cautiously, glancing over at Anna.

"I just want to go home," she replied, glaring angrily back at him. A small shudder seemed to run through Jeremy, but he had enough sense to look away from her and keep silent. Closing her eyes, Anna leaned her head against the glass of the window. The smooth, ice cold surface felt nice against her forehead.

____

_"H-hey, Anna," Jeremy stuttered, looking for all the world like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar as the door opened for him._

_"What are you doing here?" Anna replied, in no mood for bullshit. She had enough of seeing men she didn't want to see today. Casually, she leaned across the small crack between the door and its frame as if daring Jeremy to try and enter without her permission._

_"I, um," Jeremy ran a hand awkwardly through his dark hair. Then, as if giving up, his arm sagged uselessly to his side as he finished, "I need help."_

_Anna arched her eyebrow almost disbelievingly._

_"And you came to me?" she asked, a similar cynicsm coloring her tone, "As I recall, I threatened to rip your balls off the last time I saw you."_

_"Cut," Jeremy muttered softly, "You threatened to cut them off." _

_"Kinda odd asking help from someone who would do that, isn't it?" Anna replied calmly. Jeremy's eyes flitted up to meet hers for a second._

_"You wouldn't do that," he replied, "Not really. You wou-"_

_He stopped at the flash in Anna's eyes. Swallowing, he debated using the only partial leverage he had._

_"I didn't call the police," he finally added softly._

_"Obviously," Anna responded, not giving an inch, "I haven't been to court."_

_Jeremy looked back at her, his dark eyes almost glowing in desperation._

_"Anna, please," he choked, "If it helps, it has nothing to do with me. Anthony's the one in trouble."_

_Anna felt a slight twixt at the edges of her heart. It wasn't as if she were in love with Anthony, a mutual friend of Jeremy and herself. Most days she barely tolerated him. Anthony was a numbers runner for the mafia. In particular, he worked for the Rocci family. The boss of the organization, one Marco Rocci, had been the one who ordered the hit that killed Anna's parents, leaving her an orphan with a home and painful memories. A similar fate had befallen Anthony's family before he met her, spurning his work for the organization. A one man attempt to destroy it from the inside out._

_Scowling thoughtfully for a minute, Anna looked Jeremy up and down. He had grown a bit more facial hair since the last time she'd seen him, six months ago There was a haggardness throughout his entire demeanor, and for a second Anna wondered if that might be her fault. The last time she had seen Jeremy, she had discovered he also worked for Rocci What his exact job was, she didn't know. The fact that he worked for the man at all was a betrayal in and off itself. Nonetheless, she couldn't turn her back on a fellow survivor in need._

_"Come in," she said, sighing loudly. Stepping back she permitted Jeremy passage into the apartment. The tall man stepped in cautiously, as if wary of what or who he would find in there. His back straightened only when he realized they were alone._

_"No Saint?" he asked, glancing behind the sofa, in case the fugitive Anna had been harboring would pop up like a jack-in-the-box._

_"No," Anna replied, shutting the door behind her. Her hand moved to the lock before pausing in thought. Dropping her hand, she turned back to Jeremy. It wasn't that she was afraid of him, but she had become steadily more wary of strangers in her home. She wasn't about to remove a potential exit._

_"But you're still in contact with him?" Jeremy replied sullenly, turning back towards her. Anna stiffened, a sudden memory of pained blue eyes flashing through her mind._

_"No," she answered somewhat hoarsly, "Not anymore. Is there a point to this interrogation?"_

_Jeremy flinched at the tone of her voice. Backing up to sit on the couch, he shook his head knowing not to push anymore._

_"I'll get us some water," Anna said, walking towards the kitchenette. A moment later she returned, placing two cool glasses on the coffee table. Leaning back on the other side of the couch, she fixed Jeremy with a hard glare._

_"Okay, start talking," she ordered._

_In a few minutes, Jeremy laid out all the facts for her. Apparently the cops had gotten an anonymous tip that Anthony was selling drugs from his small, two-bit apartment on the west side of the Manhattan. Though no drugs had been found, Anthony had been charged and carted off to arraignment. The judge had apparently been a hardass and posted a bail Anthony couldn't pay. He had called Jeremy when he was finally put in his prison cell, asking for help._

_"And you expect me to pay his bill?" Anna asked, looking at Jeremy dubiously, "I'm not running a criminal charity, Jeremy."_

_"But he didn't do it!" Jeremy argued, "Look, I...we don't need you to pay all of it. I can cover most of it, in fact. You just need to chip in the bit to get us over."_

_"How much?" Anna replied._

_Jeremy looked down at his knees._

_"How much, Jeremy?"_

_"$800," Jeremy replied in barely a whisper. _

_"Christ," Anna exclaimed, falling against the seat, "That's a full month's rent, Jeremy."_

_"I know..I know...Anna, I'm sorry. But Anthony didn't do anything."_

_"More than he already does," Anna snapped back. Jeremy sighed._

_"Anna, you're the only other person he trusts...please."_

_Anna glared at Jeremy, staring straight into his eyes. He looked back into her's as muh as he dared. There was nothing but defeated sincerity in his tone. He sounded like someone out of options, and yet..._

_"Haven't you tried a loan or something?" she asked quietly._

_"Of course," Jeremy replied, "You said it yourself, it's not wise to ask help of someone who threatened to cut your balls off."_

_Anna could feel the faint pull of smile at the corners of her mouth. God, it seemed like forever since she had smiled. Today had weighed heavily on her though she would never openly say so. She felt ashamed of herself for giving up on Connor and Murphy, but what could she do? It wasn't like se could change their minds, even if she could heal them. It was a burden placed unfairly on her shoulders and she'd be damned if she let herself get bullied into. No, she had made the right choice but it seemed the work was never done. Sighing loudly, she shook her head, wondering once again what she was thinking._

____

_"Alright, alright," she said, "Let's go."_

"Go?" Jeremy looked up at her in surprise as she stood, "Anna, you don't need..."

"Like hell I'm going to give you a check and watch you walk out of here with it," Anna interrupted him, "I want to talk to Anthony."

Jeremy opened his mouth, his face brookering an argument. Instead, he droped his head and lifted his hands in concession.

"Okay, okay," he said, not sounding all too happy, "Let's go talk to Anthony."

Opening her eyes, Anna felt something play along her gut. It wasn't the same feeling she had gotten when Anthony showed up at her door, but something close. Jeremy had been teling her the truth about Anthony, and she had acted accordingly. This feeling, however, gave her the impression something was not quite right. Glancing at the dark line of water along the edge of bridge, she sat up in her seat. Wrapping her arms around her torso, she felt a chill run along her back. As flashing red and blues came into view around her apartment building, she felt the encumbersome weights of fate and responsibility press against her once again.

"Damn it," she cursed aloud, earning a look of surprise from Anthony and a look of mild annoyance from Jeremy, "Damn it. Damn it."

________

* * *

A.N.: See, I wouldn't hurt Anna. I like her to much (despite her stubborness). Anyway, reviews are like chocolate and I love chocolate!


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